


Needs Must

by JenTheSweetie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenTheSweetie/pseuds/JenTheSweetie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It's just that," John began.  A huff of breath; uncertainty.  "Do you think it's possible that I'm making a mistake?  No - no, don't answer that."</i>
</p><p>  <i>Sherlock opened his eyes.  World still spinning, but only slightly; headache increasing exponentially.  "Impossible to judge without knowing which mistake you're referring to," he said.</i></p><p>John made a promise.  Whatever it takes, Sherlock’s going to help him keep it.  </p><p>Missing scenes from series 3 and post-His Last Vow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs Must

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the post-S3 world. Beware some small skips in time. Thanks so much for reading.

"Sherlock."

No.

"Sherlock. All right?"

Depended on the definition of _all right_. Impossible to tell. Whole body spinning. Possible to float away? Illogical.

" _Sherlock_." 

"If I answer, will you stop talking?" Sherlock said. He twisted against the hard cot. Jail cell beds: not meant for comfort, apparently.

"Just making sure you're all right."

"You're wasting your time. I'm _dying_."

"Drama, drama," John muttered. "I'll ask them if you can get some water."

"Don't bother," Sherlock said shortly. "I will regurgitate it immediately."

"Lovely," John said.

"Stop talking and allow me to die."

"You're not dying. Haven't you ever been drunk before?"

"Age 14. Experiment. Finished a bottle of brandy found in Mycroft's room. Stayed home from school two days with supposed stomach virus."

John sighed. He shifted noisily from his spot on the floor. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. John shifted again and sighed. 

"Must you be so loud?"

"I’m sitting on concrete! You could budge over, you know," John said crossly. 

Unwise. Inhibitions lowered. Risk of embarrassment and dissolution of friendship too high. "Impossible. Cot only made for one."

"Right."

Sherlock reached out to touch the cold wall of the cell. God, he could use a toothbrush. 

John sighed again.

"Yes, all right. You're angry at me for vomiting at a dead man's home and getting us arrested during your stag do. Perhaps valid, but impossible to resolve at the present moment. Apologies, I'll make it up to you, et cetera. Now that we've covered it, can you be _quiet_?"

"It's not - well, it is that, I suppose, but it's not _mostly_ that. Jesus." There was something in John's voice that Sherlock couldn't quite identify. Not anger, irritation, exasperation - all expected, none present. Preoccupation? Distress?

"Well," Sherlock said. "What is it, then?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

It wasn't nothing. Silence. John talked on his own timetable. Unnecessary to push, he would eventually fill the - 

"It's just that," John began. A huff of breath; uncertainty. "Do you think it's possible that I'm making a mistake? No - no, don't answer that."

Sherlock opened his eyes. World still spinning, but only slightly; headache increasing exponentially. "Impossible to judge without knowing which mistake you're referring to," he said.

"Right. Forget it." John shifted again, an unbearably loud squeak from shoes.

"If the mistake you're referring to is asking me to be your best man, and therefore to host your stag do, then based on all available evidence the answer is probably yes," Sherlock offered. He touched the cool wall again. Calming. Heart racing: why? Depressive effects of alcohol apparently overstated.

"Asking you to - what, no, Sherlock, no," John said, and chuckled. "No. That's not what I'm talking about."

He was lying. Wasn't he? Difficult to tell; headache combined with horrific taste in mouth combined with churning of stomach conspired to make analysis excessively difficult. 

"Then I haven't the slightest idea what you _are_ talking about," Sherlock said. 

"'Course not," John said. "Forget it." 

"I probably will," Sherlock murmured. Perhaps if he just rested his eyes for a moment. Ah, yes. The spinning was slowing down already.

-

John had been gone exactly four minutes when the door to 221b opened again. Sherlock sighed. Four minutes. Four minutes alone since he’d been released from hospital, properly released this time, and now _this_. He sipped the tea John had left by his armchair and plotted. No weapons lying about; tea pleasantly warm but not nearly hot enough to do damage; bullet wound in stomach made chance of escape very low. 

Grin and bear it, then.

"Out of bed already, brother?" Mycroft said before he even opened the door.

"I'm not an invalid," Sherlock said as Mycroft strolled in, umbrella in hand, smiling down at Sherlock so sweetly that Sherlock wanted to rip his nostril hairs out one by one.

"Not for lack of effort," Mycroft said. "Sneaking out of the hospital, really. What would Mummy say."

Sherlock took another sip of tea. Mummy would say nothing. They both knew that Mummy would not find out, because if she did she'd threaten to come stay with Sherlock while he recovered, and if there was one thing Sherlock and Mycroft could agree on, it was that neither of them needed Mummy to descend on London.

"You've made your decision, then?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said. The decision not to turn in Mary had been an easy one. Insulting for Mycroft to imply otherwise. But then, he'd never had a friend, he'd never had a John; he had no idea.

"I won't bother with my offer," Mycroft said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. They both knew he wouldn't have a pregnant woman eliminated. All talk. Dull. "But perhaps in - what was it - 28 weeks?"

Sherlock didn't reply. John hadn't spoken to him about his current feelings on Mary, or his future feelings on Mary, or whether or not he intended to return to the marital home; he'd mostly had tea and watched telly and hid out in his old bedroom. The comfortable sound of him pacing from his wardrobe to his bed, three steps, _thump thump thump_. Glorious. 

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. He would defer to Sherlock on this - they both knew it. John Watson: strictly Sherlock's territory. 

Mycroft pulled a thick folder from behind his back. "Everything we could find." His smiled flickered and was replaced, fleetingly, with a look of remorse. Ah. Realization of how much damage could have been wrought by his failure to discover Mary’s past. Sherlock dead: Mummy would have been furious. All his fault. Delicious. If only.

"I won't bother asking why you didn't find it before," Sherlock said lightly, ignoring the folder. He knew why, knew it would all be in the folder: Mary was good. Very good. She had powerful allies to go along with her powerful enemies. Her tracks had been professionally covered, so neatly that one would have to know what to be looking for to look in the right place. Mycroft should have seen it anyway. Indefensible. Putting John Watson in danger: _unforgivable_.

"And I won't bother asking why you didn't notice despite spending months in her company," Mycroft replied. Sherlock could almost hear him saying it: _Caring is not an advantage_. Well. Too many factors. The time away - John's own judgment - John - well. Not worth arguing about. Mycroft would win, he _always_ won. 

"I don't want it in the house," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow at the folder. He set his tea down and folded his hands in his lap. Mycroft remained standing; he was enjoying this. Looming over Sherlock when Sherlock was forced, physically forced, to stay seated. The sick bastard. 

"So very easy to leave lying about," Mycroft said. "An accident. Are you sure that isn't what you want? You could _keep_ him, then."

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft sharply. How did he know - no, nevermind. Not worth thinking about. No need to write it across his face even more than it (apparently) already was.

"He's not a toy," Sherlock said.

"All the same," Mycroft said. "Know your enemy. A quick read while John's at Tesco? It really is exhilarating. You'll be impressed."

Sherlock considered. The jump drive Mary had given John was, Sherlock knew, entirely useless: it would contain nothing but a highly edited, cleaned-up version of poor Mary's life as a government agent, her against the world, full of assassinations and undercover work and plotting, yes, but all for the greater good, of course. Mycroft's manila folder, on the other hand, would be spattered with the blood of Mary's contract hits, her deception, the staggering depths of her lies. 

It would be impossible to tell John.

It would be impossible _not_ to tell John.

"Take it away," Sherlock said. 

Mycroft sighed. "If you insist."

"You ought to stick around," Sherlock said, assuming a bored tone. "John's been desperate to get out his anger, I'm sure you would be a lovely punching bag."

"As fun as that sounds, brother dear, I have a country to manage," Mycroft said. He tucked the folder under his arm and smiled again. "I'll visit in a few days, shall I?"

"I would rather die," Sherlock said, smirking.

"Naturally," Mycroft said, and turned on his heel. 

"You're supposed to bring food for invalids, you know," Sherlock called out as Mycroft trotted down the stairs. He glared at the door. Mycroft. What was the use of having him around if he couldn't do the most _important_ \- well. Too late now. 

"Anything interesting happen while I was gone?" John asked 38 minutes later as he pulled groceries out of his bags. 

"Mycroft came for a visit," Sherlock said, scrolling through a study on the varying levels of decomposition of a body when exposed to freezing temperatures. Fascinating; rarely useful in London, apart from the occasional body found in a meat locker, but one never knew.

A slam. Sherlock didn't look up - a jar of olives slammed down on the table, by the sound of it, but apparently they were unscathed. "He did, did he? Anything interesting to say?"

"Just a social call," Sherlock said. It was a lie so transparent that even John would see through it.

"Right," John said. He took a deep breath. "Right."

"He extends his apologies," Sherlock said, a bit hesitantly. Mycroft, of course, had done no such thing. An experiment. Mycroft as cannon fodder. Would John accept apologies? Did he want them? _Sorry I missed the fact that you married a psychopath_.

"Does he?" John said. "Fat lot of good that does now. What did you say?"

"I told him to piss off," Sherlock said, and John laughed. 

"Good," John said. "Cheers."

-

"Curry," Sherlock said, standing up and pulling off one of his gloves with a snap. As he'd expected - a 4. At _best_. 

"What?" John blinked. To be fair, the body in front of them didn't exactly inspire hunger: the man had been poisoned and choked on his own vomit. Still.

"There's nothing else to learn from the body until the toxicology report confirms what I already know, and you haven't eaten since breakfast. Therefore, curry. We'll stop on the way back to Baker Street." Sherlock nodded across the bustling crime scene in Lestrade's general direction and lifted up the police tape blocking the front door of the flat. John ducked under the tape and led the way out into the crisp autumn air.

"Not a suicide, then?" John asked as they exited the alley and turned onto the main road. It had begun to drizzle while they were at the crime scene, and John clearly already regretted not bringing his gloves; Sherlock watched as he rubbed his hands together for warmth.

"Obviously not," Sherlock said. He threw up a hand for a cab. "Set up to look like one, and not even well. The empty bottle of azithromycin was a dead giveaway - you'd need more than a full bottle to die from an overdose of that, as you well know. He was poisoned, probably in his tea, possibly by his food. The victim was an entrepreneur, that much was obvious from his style of dress and the state of the flat. His business is about to go under, creditors are at the door - did you see the pile of unopened mail? Not to mention his wife's recently left him, so why wouldn't he kill himself? The perfect cover. Of course, there _will_ be a rather large life insurance pay out now that he's dead."

"The wife, then?"

"No," Sherlock said, and he glanced at John with a slight smile. Jumping to the wrong conclusion, as usual. But in this case: primed. _The wife_. "It's usually the wife, yes, but this time it's the business partner. It's not terribly unusual to have life insurance policies with business partners as the beneficiary, so that in the event that one of them dies, the other can continue on with the business. Or, in this case, save the business from insolvency. And now the remaining owner is the sole decision maker. Motive, signed, sealed, and delivered. Pity; if only he'd chosen more wisely in the first place, he wouldn't have needed to commit murder."

"Have you got a life insurance policy on me, then?" John asked as a cab pulled up and Sherlock opened the door. "Without my blog, your supply of clients would have dried up long ago." 

"I'm sure I'd find a new blogger," Sherlock said, easing himself into the cab behind John. A twinge in his stomach; ignore it. John mustn't know. "Perhaps one with a less romantic view of crime solving and a better grasp of the English language."

"Tosser," John said, chuckling. "The real challenge would be finding one who'll put up with you."

"Perhaps I could at least find one who remembers to bring an umbrella when it's _obviously_ about to rain," Sherlock said, pushing his dripping fringe out of his eyes. He winced as the movement pulled at his stitches, and saw John raise his eyebrows out of the corner of his eye. John sighed and passed a hand over his eyes, looked for a moment like he was in pain himself. Sherlock winced again. Caught. 

"That wasn't an eight, was it?" John said.

First instinct: lie. "Of course it was."

"You solved it in about three minutes," John pointed out. "If you'd left Lestrade for another half hour he probably could have done it on his own."

"Unlikely," Sherlock said. It was not a lie: it would have taken Lestrade an hour at least. 

"You knew it wasn't an eight," John said. "He texted you, and you _told_ me it was an eight, but you knew it wasn't. What was it, a three?"

"Four at least," Sherlock muttered.

"Right," John said. "You're not leaving the house again for a week."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Unlikely. John had to sleep sometime. Sherlock did too, these days - massive blood loss would do that to you, it seemed - but another week in 221b and he would _actually_ die this time.

"I'm serious," John said, angrily this time. Angry. Why? Irritation at being lied to? "I'm serious, Sherlock, are you listening? It's not a joke. You nearly died _twice_. You've got to be more careful." 

Ah, not anger. Fear. Concern. Guilt? Possibly. It was _John's_ wife who had caused the twice-over near death in question.

"I don't blame you, you realize," Sherlock said.

"Well, you ought to," John said. "If it weren't for me, you never would have - well." He glanced at the cabbie, and Sherlock did too. Marijuana user, probably wasn't even listening. Probably shouldn't be driving. Best not mention that to John.

"You ought to be blaming me," Sherlock said. Counter-attack; likely effect would be a distraction from guilt, replaced with desire to allay any conception of blame.

"I do, sometimes," John muttered, staring out the window, and Sherlock pulled back as if he'd been slapped. John seemed to realize he'd spoken aloud and whirled to face Sherlock, his face suddenly drawn. "No, I - god. No, I don't. I didn't mean it."

Sherlock pursed his lips. It was fine if he did. He blamed himself, at any rate. John might as well too. 

"Sherlock," John said, and grabbed his hand. "I really don't. You know I don't blame you. I just - I was just worried. And angry. Not at you. I don't blame you at all. How could I blame you? Jesus." 

Sherlock froze. He looked down at his hand, clasped between John's. John's hands were cold; Sherlock was seized with a desire to lift them to his mouth and blow on them to warm them up. "It's all right," he said stiffly. 

"Good," John said. He squeezed Sherlock's hand, as if reassuring himself, and then moved as if to pull his hand back, but Sherlock squeezed back, hard, and didn't let go. John looked up at him. His eyes darted out the window - as if anyone was looking, as if anyone could possibly see them - and then back to Sherlock. Sherlock smiled - at least it was supposed to be a smile, but he imagined it looked a bit painful, it _felt_ a bit painful, like someone had cut open his shirt and the skin that pulled tight over his ribs and exposed his flesh and bone, laid it all bare for John to see, suddenly, in the backseat of a cab as the rain spattered the windows.

John nodded once, cleared his throat, and sat back against the seat, his hands still clutching one of Sherlock's. Sherlock stared down at them, mesmerized, aching, and deeply cold, until - all too soon, Sherlock thought, as if time had the ability to slow down or speed up - the cab pulled to a stop.

-

 

"You're drinking."

John snorted and set his glass down on the side table next to the nearly-empty bottle of scotch. Sherlock took a cautious step into the sitting room. 

"Brilliant," he said dryly. "Extraordinary. How did you possibly figure it out?"

"You're drinking alone," Sherlock said.

"Amazing. Ladies and gentlemen, the world's only consulting detective."

"You generally prefer to drink socially, if at all; drinking alone is the province of your sister, and you go to great lengths avoid any potential comparisons," Sherlock said, taking another step closer; he was now nearly hovering over John. "What's happened?"

"Nothing," John said. A lie. Obviously. "Care for a drink?"

"John," Sherlock said, a bit reproachfully. 

"We're nearly out," John said, pulling the stopper out of the bottle and pouring another splash into his glass. "You might have to pop down to the shop to get more if you'd like to catch up. You can have some of mine, though." He held his glass up over his head. Sherlock took it; after a moment, he downed it and set it back down on the end table, empty.

"That's a start," John said, in a voice that indicated he was mildly impressed. 

"You began drinking almost immediately after coming home from work,” Sherlock said, crossing to stand in front of John. John stared moodily at his knees. “It has to do with Mary: obvious. She's 21 weeks pregnant on Thursday. She's showing. She spoke to you; she wants you to come home."

"Easy," John said.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "Quite."

"Not much of a fun puzzle for you today, am I?"

"You're always a puzzle to me," Sherlock said. John looked up, blinking, and Sherlock frowned. 

"I want to, you know," John said. "Go home. To her."

"Yes," Sherlock said. Incredible: the pain seemed centered in his chest. Would it spread outward? Perhaps it was only the leftover burn of the scotch. He could hope. "I gathered."

"But I - I don't trust her. I don't know how to trust her again."

"You love her," Sherlock said. As if it were that simple. If it were that simple - well. It wasn’t.

"Do I? Do I still?" John’s voice was ragged, desperate.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "You love her, and you have a truly astounding capacity to forgive the people you love." Sherlock smiled tightly: he would know. 

"What if I don't want to go?" John said. "What if I want to stay here?"

"You don't," Sherlock said.

"I do," John said, stubbornly, insistently. A lie. And if not: he ought to keep it to himself. He would go, eventually; it was obvious. "It's nice here. Only a few assassins around. Fingernails in the cupboard but no throw pillows on the bed. And _you're_ here. So that's rather a big plus."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Did John truly have no idea what he was saying? Sherlock leaned forward, slowly, and rested his hands on the arms of John's chair. John was trapped; he was surrounded; he was safe.

"You know," John continued, staring a bit dazedly into Sherlock’s face, "I might never have left. If you hadn't left me first, that is. I might have always stayed."

"You wouldn't have," Sherlock said. "You would have left eventually. You would have found Mary. Or someone else. Something would have taken you away."

"You don't know," John said, adjusting in his seat until he was sitting up straight, the better to glare at Sherlock. " _You_ left. Not me. Never me."

Sherlock gripped arms of the chair tightly; his knuckles were white. If only John could see, if only he knew. John swallowed, licked his lips. Sherlock’s mouth was dry, drier than it was only a moment earlier, and John was so close, his face was swimming before Sherlock’s eyes. 

"You could stay," Sherlock said quietly, confidentially, his eyes never leaving John's. "You could stay with me, here." He whispered it; the words were so soft that he could take them back if John laughed in his face.

But John didn’t laugh. He reached up and twisted his fingers into the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Yes," he said. "I could." He pulled Sherlock's head down, caught his lips, soft and tasting of scotch. Sherlock clung to the moment, struggled to imprint it to the permanent hard drive. He wanted to commit it all to memory, frame it and cover it in plastic and keep it safe. 

When John pulled back, his lips and cheeks were red; he was breathing heavily. He licked his lips. "You'd sit there, and I here, and it would go back to normal.”

Sherlock wanted to kiss him again, bruise his lips this time, mark him, _take_ him. John had never denied him anything. If he so much as asked, John would give. 

“I would give you everything I could, everything I could bear to give, and you would say that it was enough,” Sherlock said. It was a threat and a promise. “I would be on my best behavior for a while yet, and then I would hurt you, and frustrate you, and piss you off to no end, and it would be all right.” He cleared his throat. “I've pictured it; surely you know that.” John didn’t reply, but he saw, he observed, some things at least. The things Sherlock could not hide. “We would solve crimes together, and eat takeaway, and you'd move your clothes into my bedroom and irreparably destroy my sock index. And the baby would come visit us on the weekends and call me Uncle Sherlock and I would love him or her like my own, as far as I could. It would be, in it's way, absolutely perfect." Sherlock smiled and counted the seconds while his heart clenched and sunk and shattered. "And you would never, ever forgive me for it." He leaned in, one more time, one _last_ time, he knew, and pressed his lips to John's.

He was right, he was right, he was right. He wondered if this is what people meant when they said “heartbreak”. It wasn’t in his heart at all: stupid. It felt like a sour stomach, like a burning in the back of his throat, like slowly drowning. He pulled back. John’s eyes opened; he looked young and desperate and resigned. 

"Sherlock," John said, and cleared his throat. 

Sherlock sat down heavily in his own armchair, willing his hands to stop shaking, shifting uncomfortably. His own autonomic nervous system: the ultimate betrayal. "You were always going to go back to her. It is now only a question of when." He steepled his fingers under his chin. 

"But it's not yet,” John said. “It's not tonight. Tonight - tonight, we drink." He grabbed the bottle and poured the rest of the scotch into the glass in one go. He took a sip and passed the glass to Sherlock.

"Cheers," Sherlock said, and downed it.

\- 

Sherlock pushed open the door to 221b and breathed in deeply. Home. _Finally_.

Three weeks since he'd shot Charles Augustus Magnussen. Fifteen days since he'd said goodbye to John and Mary and climbed aboard a plane. Fifteen days since the plane had turned around and brought him right back to Mycroft's wretched car to hunt down Moriarty, or what was left of him. 

A sound from above. Someone was upstairs. Mycroft had a security detail outside, no one would have been allowed to get past the front door, much less all the way upstairs, except - Sherlock felt something warm in his stomach. _John_. Sherlock climbed the first step.

Fourteen days since he’d realized he was trapped with Mycroft and his team, following up with every cold lead, staking out every known location, searching, hunting, digging to see: what of Jim Moriarty remained in London? What of Jim Moriarty still haunted these streets, taking over tellies and computer screens and every billboard in town? 

Sherlock had watched him blow a bullet out the back of his head. Mycroft's own men had recovered the body from the roof at Bart's.

Of course, they had been rather busy ensuring the (apparent) death of the other man on that roof. Possibly they had made a mistake. Possibly Mycroft had trusted the wrong people.

Possibly Moriarty was not dead at all.

Sherlock climbed the second step.

It was a delightful puzzle. Sherlock had his theories, slowly winnowed down from the original thirty-seven, with varying degrees of likelihood, to the ones that fit with what Mycroft's team had been able to uncover. 

_Mycroft_. Sherlock was stuck with him, for the time being. England needed Sherlock - _for now_ , was the clear, unspoken warning, _just for now_ \- and Sherlock had no idea what that meant for him, long term. Perhaps he would be so valuable that Mycroft would be able to convince the powers that be not to send him to Eastern Europe after all. Or perhaps they would simply execute him. Best not to be too concerned about it. All that mattered now was the work. The work, and - well.

Sherlock climbed the third step. Another shift from above. Definitely John; he was sitting in his armchair. He was waiting for Sherlock.

Sherlock hadn't been entirely certain, at first, that the whole thing wasn't a set-up by his brother to get him back in the country. Mycroft’s junkie little brother; his _pressure point_ , as Magnussen had said. Mycroft was capable of flooding every screen in the country with an image of a dead man, certainly, but would he bother?

No. Probably not. Almost definitely not. Would have been fantastic, though. Oh, the leverage Sherlock would have had. _Causing a national panic just to save your little brother?_ Melting the Ice Man.

Sherlock climbed the fourth step.

God. He was exhausted. He hadn't slept in - well. Unknown. He'd dozed off in the car, briefly, the day before, woken to Mycroft's Bespoke toe pressing down on his. Childish. Sherlock had glared at him for thirteen minutes straight. Being around Mycroft: unbearable. 

At the very least, he'd finally been permitted to return to Baker Street. It had taken some convincing, a few strings pulled, a few arched eyebrows. But he was here. He was _home_.

And John was waiting for him. 

Sherlock bounded up the rest of the stairs.

John was waiting in his armchair, as expected. He looked up at Sherlock as he entered, but didn't speak. There weren't any lights on; the room was dim in the fading afternoon sunlight, and already a bit dusty. Mrs. Hudson was losing her touch, apparently. 

Sherlock took off his coat and hung it on the hook near the door, then unravelled his scarf and draped it over the arm of the sofa. "Not that I'm not glad to see you," Sherlock said lightly, "but how did you even know I was coming here?" He flopped down onto the sofa and closed his eyes. He could be asleep within moments if he let himself; John would be waiting for him when he woke, so relieved that Sherlock was back and in one piece that he'd probably have tea ready.

"Mycroft," John said, and his voice was scratchy, as if from disuse. "He stopped by."

Sherlock opened his eyes. Mycroft had - stopped by? Stopped by John's house? That was truly horrible news. "Just to say hello?"

John laughed, low and soft. The news was getting worse. "He thought I might want to know you'd got some time off."

"I would have texted you." 

"That's what I told him," John said. "But he, ah. There was something he wanted me to see, I suppose. Something he wanted to give me. Had my name on it, after all."

Sherlock felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. The - well, Sherlock had refused to call it a will at the time, but that's what the hastily scribbled letter would have become, had Moriarty not been resurrected just in time. _To John Watson, I leave all of my worldly possessions_. "I see."

"Do you?"

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the sofa. John was staring at him - glaring, his face a mix of pain and fury. 

"Yes," Sherlock said stiffly. "I see that my brother is a total idiot."

John slammed his fist down on the side table. "No, you don't see. You don't see at all. You knew - you _knew_ you weren't ever coming back. You knew in advance. And instead of telling me, instead of explaining, you threw it out there at the airport, casually, like oh, by the way, this is going to be the last time we ever talk. Do you know what that would have _done_ to me, Sherlock?" John took a deep breath. "Do you have any idea?"

"I know what it did to me," Sherlock said, and snapped his mouth shut. 

John's mouth fell open for a second. "You - God. All right. You - you write a will that says you're leaving me everything you own - "

" - except for any furniture Mrs. Hudson wanted," Sherlock corrected.

" _Everything_ you own. And some day, six months from now, I wait to hear from Mycroft - from _Mycroft_ \- that you're dead. No body. No word. You've just disappeared. You're gone. _And you expected me to believe it_." 

Ah. Sherlock hadn't thought that through. John's eyes were blazing, bright, furious.

"Are you seeing it now?" John said, his voice a bit ragged. "You died once before, you know. I believed it that time. I saw your body, I buried it and I believed you were gone. But I wouldn't have this time. I never would have stopped waiting for you to come back. I would have waited, and waited, and waited. I would have waited _forever_."

Sherlock shut his eyes briefly. His lungs threatened to collapse with the weight of realizing, all at once, what he had (almost) done to John Watson.

"And you left me everything you own! The last act of a selfish prick. I would have had to come here, to Baker Street, and go through all of it. Which I didn't do last time, you know, I couldn't bear to come back, and Mycroft told me he'd handle it. Turns out he was making sure everything stayed, since he knew you'd be back! But it didn’t matter what he told me - I would have thought it was all another plot. Another two years, five, maybe ten. I wouldn’t have believed it this time. _This_ time my best friend died. Jesus." John shook his head and smiled, that dangerous smiled that came out when he was on the razor edge of fury. "Only you, Sherlock. Only you."

"I," Sherlock began, and took a deep breath. "I apologize. It seems I miscalculated."

John raised an eyebrow.

" _Severely_ miscalculated. I thought it would be - kinder - to leave the reality of the situation a bit obscured."

"You mean easier. You thought it would be _easier_."

"When was the last time I was good at dealing with emotional situations, John?" Sherlock said, and rolled his eyes. "And I truly thought you would want to have my things. _Our_ things." He pursed his lips; another slip. _Our things_. God, he really was tired.

"Yeah, the skull would have been lovely in the baby's room," John said. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "God. Of course I'd - of course I'd want your things. But you understand that I would have - I would have thought of it as just saving them. For you." John looked at him

"I do now," Sherlock said softly.

John sighed heavily. He leaned back in his chair. "So you're back, then? For good?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, and leaned back. "I think so. They might send me back once this Moriarty thing blows over. I haven't a clue. I’ll text you if I find out."

"Fuck you," John said, and dropped his head into his hands. " _Fuck_ you, Sherlock." His shoulders shook, and Sherlock felt his throat close up. He stood up, a bit unsteady on his feet - 47 hours without any sleep was pushing it even for him - and crossed the room to place a hand on John's heaving shoulders. If he was crying - well, Sherlock had never successfully comforted a weeping person in his life, he'd never _tried_ , not that he could remember. Sherlock patted his shoulder hesitantly. 

"John," Sherlock said, shifting uncomfortably. "There, there. It's all right."

John looked up at him and burst into laughter. He was laughing. He was _laughing_. He shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed hard, and kept laughing.

"Oh, god. You're the worst, you know that?" John stood up and, without warning, wrapped Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock instinctively put his arms around John. John hugged him fiercely, almost angrily. Sherlock smelled his hair; impossible not to, at this distance, his face was practically buried in it: _not_ creepy. _John_. 

"I ought to kill you myself," John murmured into his shoulder. "At least then I'd know you were dead."

Sherlock laughed. "Not the worst idea you've ever had." He wondered how long hugs were supposed to go on for. Was this too long? Perhaps he was too tired to judge appropriately. He breathed in deeply. John's fingers clung to the back of his shirt.

"Right," John muttered, and pulled back. He cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder; a nervous tic. 

"Right," Sherlock echoed. "I - as much as I am truly glad to see you, I haven’t slept in 47 hours. Nearly 48."

"Of course," John said. He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, all business again. "You ought to get some sleep. Do you, ah - I know I can't come with you to wherever Mycroft keeps all his minions, but if - if you need anything, you know, for the case - well. Let me know, yeah?"

"Certainly," Sherlock said. "In fact - you've got to get home to Mary, of course, but - well." When had he become so truly terrible at talking to John? "If you'd like to have dinner, after I sleep a bit, that would be acceptable."

"Oh, eating, are we?" John teased. "Even on a case?"

"I held off for the first week," Sherlock said, and allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk up. 

"Go to bed," John said. "I'll wake you up in a few hours."

"Good," Sherlock said, and brushed past John on his way to his bedroom. "Make sure you do." He felt John's eyes on his back, and smiled.

-

The rush of thought that accompanied waking up after unintentional unconsciousness was always a bit overwhelming.

First: ascertain surroundings and confirm that coming to further bodily harm was not a concern.

Easy. Firm bed below, body propped at a nearly 45 degree angle, low thrum of activity in the background, smell of antiseptic and urine: hospital. Unlikely (though not impossible) that there was an imminent threat.

Second: revisit moments before unconsciousness.

Slightly less easy. Sherlock had tailed three different henchmen through the city to a safehouse in Bethnal Green, where Janine - _Janine_ , of all people, Jim Moriarty’s younger half-sister, how had he missed _that_ \- was hiding in plain sight. There had been almost nothing to track her to her brother (who was, in fact, dead on the roof years earlier), nothing to tie her to the slow rebuilding of his web, her adoption of the family business. Sherlock had known Janine had only been using him the previous year, just as he’d been using her, but he’d had no idea just how much. 

Luring him to Bethnal Green was apparently just for sport, further proof of the reach of her power; killing him would have been the cherry on top, the final laugh in his face. Bringing Sherlock Holmes back to London, just to kill him herself. Genius. Insanity. It ran in families. Sherlock would know.

She hadn’t made the mistake her brother made, though. She wasn’t quite so theatrical: when it came down to it, she was all business. Janine Moriarty was going to kill Sherlock herself, or at least watch him die at the hand of one of her men, suffocating slowly as his large meaty hands tightened around his throat. Strangulation: not a fun way to die. Mycroft’s men were minutes away, but they would be minutes too late. Sherlock grasped with sweaty hands at the fingers cutting off his windpipe, but the man had a hundred pounds on him. He wondered, just before he passed out, if John had received his text earlier in the day. 

And now he was alive. Curious.

Third: Prepare to face Mycroft. By far the hardest.

Sherlock opened his eyes. Mycroft was, of course, standing above him. The room was dim; it had been fewer than twelve hours since he’d arrived at Janine’s safehouse. 

“There we are,” Mycroft said smarmily. “Had a nice nap, did we?”

“Not long enough,” Sherlock croaked, forgetting for a moment his bruised and battered windpipe. “Morphine?”

“You’ve had quite enough, I believe,” Mycroft said. “Clever of you to trace her all the way to the safehouse, but alone and unarmed?” Mycroft tutted with disappointment. “Surely you could have waited another five minutes?”

“She might’ve been tipped off,” Sherlock pointed out. “It was a calculated risk.”

“Yes, one that very nearly cost you your life,” Mycroft said. “You were very lucky Janine Moriarty was not the only one being followed that day. Ah, and here he is. The man of the hour.” Mycroft smiled and looked up at the doorway. Sherlock whipped his head around to see John walk in, two paper cups of coffee in hand.

“You’re awake,” John said. He handed a cup of coffee to Mycroft. Sherlock felt the world flip over.

“What are you doing here?” he said, and coughed. 

John glanced at Mycroft, and Mycroft raised his eyebrows. John and Mycroft communicating above his head: abhorrent.

“Dr. Watson apparently was becoming rather tired of being left behind on this particular case,” Mycroft said. “He followed you to Ms. Moriarty’s safehouse without attracting your attention. You’re losing your touch, brother dear.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. _John_. John’s face was impassive; he took a sip of his coffee, looking so unconcerned that Mycroft may well have been discussing the weather.

“You’re lucky he was there,” Mycroft said, looking like it pained him to admit it. “He shot your captor and kept Ms. Moriarty contained until reinforcements arrived.” Mycroft raised his cup to John. “England is in your debt, Dr. Watson, as is my little brother.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John smothered a laugh. “Thanks. I’ll let you know if I ever need a helicopter ride anywhere or anything.”

“Do,” Mycroft said, and smiled. “Well, I had best be going. I have a few things to attend to, as you can imagine. Not the least of which is pushing through a retroactive firearm license.” 

“Cheers,” John said, and Sherlock chuckled and coughed as Mycroft left the room.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Sherlock said as soon as his cough had abated. 

“You shouldn’t have left me behind,” John said, raising his eyebrows.

“Mary is nine months and five days pregnant, I couldn’t very well keep you out all night tracing a lead that was almost certainly going to be cold,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“Oh, and going off alone was better? You’re an idiot,” John said.

“You told me that the last time you shot a man for me,” Sherlock said, feeling his lips twist up in a smile.

“Some things don’t change,” John said. 

“I suppose I should say thank you, then,” Sherlock said primly, reaching up to touch his tender throat. “You could’ve come a moment sooner, though.”

John laughed. “I’ll take what I can get.” He bit his lip and reached out a hand; it hovered near Sherlock’s throat, just over what Sherlock could imagine were dark, purpling, finger-shaped bruises on his neck. Sherlock felt the heat from his fingers. He wanted to pull away, draw the shutters; he wanted to arch forward, force John to touch him, draw him closer. “Thought you were dead, you know, for a moment.”

“Yes, I do that, sometimes,” Sherlock said quietly. John shook his head and rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, as if that had been its intended destination from the beginning. 

His phone beeped. He shook himself and teached for his pocket; the air grew colder.

“Probably Mary wondering how you’re doing, she was concerned, she - oh my god,” John said, as the color drained from his face. “Oh my god.”

“She’s in labor,” Sherlock said. Didn’t take much of a knack for observation to realize that.

“Oh my god,” John repeated. He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes wide. “She’s having the baby.”

Sherlock grinned. “Perhaps you ought to cash in that helicopter ride.”

“Jesus,” John said. He looked ecstatic, terrified, overwrought. “I’ve got to go.”

“Go,” Sherlock said. He coughed weakly. “Go on.” 

John looked at the door, then back at Sherlock, then back at the door.

“But you - you’re all right?”

“My risk of death is significantly lower than it was a few hours ago. _Go_ ,” Sherlock said, waving at the door. John set his cup of coffee down on the table beside the bed and headed for the door, his eyes a bit wild.

“I’ll text you - I’ll let you know, when she arrives - “

“Please do,” Sherlock said. John nodded once, then disappeared into the hall.

Sherlock settled back against the hospital bed. The murmuring of the hospital, drowned out for a few moments by the appearance of John Watson, restarted. Sherlock pressed the morphine button. Well: after that - nearly dying, of course he meant nearly dying, nothing else - he rather deserved it.

-

Sherlock opened the fridge. Mrs. Hudson brought up a sandwich this morning - or - was that yesterday? Hm. Difficult to tell. Had he already eaten it? Apparently. 

He closed the fridge. He opened it again and scowled. Ridiculous human compulsion to look in the refrigerator more than once as if something new might have appeared. Nothing new ever appeared in the refrigerator. Except maggots, occasionally.

17 stairs down, the door opened. Key. _John_. Sherlock closed the door to the fridge. Perhaps John had food. Bit late for a visit, but if he brought pad thai, there would be no questions asked. Sherlock took his place in his chair and waited.

John did not have dinner; that much was clear the moment he walked through the door. He was also very damp. _Ah_. Wonderful. There would be tea in the morning.

"Of course," Sherlock said.

"I - of course _what_?" John said, crossing his arms. His shoulders were tense, and he had dark circles under his eyes. _Not_ that Sherlock had needed further confirmation of the obvious.

"Of course you can stay the night," Sherlock said.

"You know, sometimes it's nice to let people explain things for themselves instead of immediately deducing them the moment they walk in the door," John said, throwing himself down into his armchair.

"It hasn't rained in nearly two hours but you're still damp, so clearly you've been outside for at least that long. Wandering, no doubt, if you'd actually intended to come here you would have come straight away instead of walking in the rain until nearly eleven o’clock at night. You and Mary have been fighting for weeks; that’s _not_ a deduction, you told me that yourself. Not to mention, today is Sunday." Sherlock shrugged.

"Sunday? What has Sunday got to do with it?"

"The weekend is nearly over, tensions are high, everyone is thinking about how distasteful it sounds to start a new week in the exact same state they're ending this one. Sundays are the most common day to end a relationship, and perhaps unsurprisingly the most common day for crimes of passion, though I'm assuming based on the wrinkles on your shirt and the fact that you are not a heinous person that you did not actually _kill_ your wife but simply walked out after a fight." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John sighed and stared at his hands, clasped in his lap.

"Ah. And you haven't eaten. You intended to go home for dinner, but it got too late and now you're embarrassed. Thai sounds delightful, what do you think?"

John laughed and shook his head. "You're a right bastard, you know that?"

"I've heard."

"You're paying."

Several cartons of takeaway thai and two beers later, John dug gloomily into his yellow curry. He sighed and took a swig of beer, then sighed again. 

"As your best friend, I feel obligated to ask you if you'd like to talk about it. However, again as your best friend, I also feel obligated to remind you exactly who you're talking to, and dissuade you from wasting your time," Sherlock said, setting his fork down delicately.

John chuckled. "Not much to talk about, is there?" Sherlock nearly sighed in relief: the bullet dodged yet again. Now maybe he could turn on the telly and John could have another beer and Sherlock could make him laugh by pointing out some of the rather absurd things he'd deduced about their friends lately (Lestrade was dating someone who had cats even though he was allergic, Mrs. Hudson had a new dealer who she thought was flirting but was actually ripping her off, and Mycroft had started up a juice cleanse). 

"It wasn't even a big thing," John continued, and oh, dear. The deductions would have to wait. Pity: he'd been saving the juice cleanse for just such a moment. "It really wasn't. She was talking about her gap year - you know, the one where she traveled to South America, saw Machu Picchu, she always talks about it, says it was the best year of her life - and I don't know what made me say it, I just snapped, I said, 'Did you _really_ have a gap year?' I just had this feeling - god, I mean, she probably never even _took_ a gap year, she probably killed someone in Peru and got in a spot of tourism while she was at it!" John laughed harshly. "And she was furious, she said of course she'd taken a gap year, how dare I, and I just thought - my god, I don't believe a word she says. Not a bloody word. She tells me she changed Gracie before she put her down and I sneak into her room to check. She says she's stopping at Tesco on the way home and I want a written itinerary." He shook his head. Sherlock stared at his fork. "I thought - I thought I could _do_ this, I really did, because I love her - but it's acting, Sherlock. I'm just playing the part. And I don't know how much longer I can do it. I really don't." 

Sherlock pursed his lips. So much to say, none of it appropriate. Listening. That's what friends did, that's what John had told him: just listen. Don't comment. Don't judge. Don't deduce (that was a special rule, just for Sherlock - apparently it wasn't an issue in most friendships). _Listen_. 

"I don't know what I'm saying," John said, and shook his head. "I love Gracie, more than anything, I could never leave her. And I - I do love Mary. I do."

"Love," Sherlock said slowly, and knew he would regret it later, "is not always enough."

John looked up at him, eyes bright and wide. Vulnerable. Piercing. 

Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached for it slowly, not taking his eyes off John. If it was Mycroft, Sherlock was going to skin him in his sleep.

_Is John with you?_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Is it Mary?" John asked. Did Sherlock have a face that managed to express 'I just received a text from the woman who shot me'? Perhaps his observational skills were finally rubbing off on John. About time. "It is, isn't it. I left my mobile at home. She'll be worried."

_Safe and sound. SH_

"Let her know I'm all right. Jesus. Should I call? I don't - I can't talk to her right now. She'll be angry and we'll just row again."

_Tell him I'd like to talk to him._

"Maybe I should talk to her. God, I didn't actually want her to worry. She ought to go to bed. Tell her I'll talk to her tomorrow."

_Perhaps not wise tonight. SH_

"I hope Gracie doesn't keep her up all night. Mary's been wanting to sleep train her, but I just feel like she's so little, you know, if she's crying, she needs to be - well, you don't care."

"I do care," Sherlock corrected. If he was entirely honest, he cared a bit overmuch about everything to do with Gracie Watson, who was in most ways no more interesting than every other four month old on the planet but who was in other ways utterly spellbinding. "Mary wants to let her cry, you don't. Normal argument between new parents. Not related to Mary's history as a professional assassin."

"No," John said, and chuckled. "No, that's true." 

A buzz. _Tell him to come home._

 _He already is. SH._ Delete. Unnecessarily inflammatory. Not to mention untrue, by most standards. John didn't even have a toothbrush at Baker Street anymore. 

"She would like you to come home," Sherlock said, not looking up from his phone, thumbs poised. "What would you like me to say?"

John sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. He looked up at the ceiling. "Nothing. I don't - yeah. Don't say anything. Forget it. I'll talk to her tomorrow." He stood up to get another beer from the kitchen. Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket. 

"Mycroft is on a juice cleanse," Sherlock said as John cracked open his beer. Inappropriately timed? Unclear. John laughed.

"You're fucking kidding," John said. "How's it going?"

"He's cranky and miserable, so quite well, for me, at least," Sherlock said, and grinned. 

John laughed again. "Those are terrible for you, you know. And I say that as a doctor."

"I'll be sure to pass along the message," Sherlock said. John took a long swallow of beer and sighed again, the laughter lines fading from his face. He had aged a decade in moments. 

"This is nice," he said. "I miss this, you know."

"As do I," Sherlock said, and cleared his throat. "Nice to have someone to listen. Still can't quite adjust back to the skull." An attempt at levity: unsuccessful. John barely registered.

"The thing is," John said quietly, "the thing is that sometimes I forget. I look at her, and I see her holding the baby, and she's the woman I married. She's beautiful, and funny, and lovely, and she's just _Mary_. She's everything I want. And then I remember, and it's like - it's like getting the wind knocked out of me. She lied to me, about everything. _Everything_. And then, to cover up those lies, to cover up an entire _lifetime_ of lies, she shot my best friend. And don't say it again, don't say she meant _not_ to kill you, because she nearly _did_. And you know what? I lived without you once, and I have to say, I'm not interested in doing it again. And she almost ensured that I had to."

There was a long, quiet moment.

"I'm not interested in it either," Sherlock said.

"What?" John said.

"I'm not interested in living without you, either," Sherlock said, and scowled. "Don't make me repeat myself, John."

"Never," John said. He laughed. "Cardinal sin, that. I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe I should just - well. Maybe I could move back here for a while." He sighed. Sherlock's heart sped up. "Maybe Mary and I need a break. D'you think Gracie's crib would fit up in my old room?"

"If not, you can sleep in mine," Sherlock said, and cringed. Wrong impression: John didn't mean it that way. "I mean - you could have my room. You and Gracie. I could sleep upstairs. Or not at all. Doesn't matter."

John shook his head, chuckled. Ah. Of course. He didn't mean it; it was idle chatter. Thinking out loud. He would never leave Mary. "I - it won't work. I know it won't." 

"Then don't say it," Sherlock said quietly, bitterly. More bitterly than he'd intended. Giveaway. _Damn_. "Don't say it if you don't mean it."

John looked up, his eyebrows knitted together. "Sherlock, I - "

"And don't apologize, either." Sherlock stood up quickly and walked to the worktop, his back to John. "Another beer?"

"I haven't finished this one," John said. He stood up, and Sherlock heard him approach from behind. "Look. I - sorry. You're right. I shouldn't have said it. I didn't think you - well." He cleared his throat. Sherlock glared at nothing. "I didn't think you would - I didn't realize."

"You see, but you do not observe," Sherlock said under his breath. John reached up and patted his shoulder, hesitantly, once, twice. Sherlock didn't move. John was so close. Sherlock could turn around, pin him to the worktop; it would be so he easy. He could catch his lips, whisper something, appeal to John's baser instincts, do whatever was necessary to convince him, convince him to _stay_ \- 

"I ought to go to bed," John said quietly. "Work tomorrow. I - have you still got those old sheets, in the cupboard? I'll toss them on the bed - "

"It's made up," Sherlock interrupted. He whirled around and fixed his eyes on John. "Your bed. It's still made up."

"Oh," John said. "Right. Thanks."

"Mrs. Hudson does it," Sherlock said dismissively. "In case of guests." Not that Sherlock had ever had a guest that wasn't John, as Mrs. Hudson knew. As John, certainly, knew.

"Of course," John said. "Well. Good night, then."

"Good night," Sherlock said.

-

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignored him. He was _sleeping_ , for god’s sake.

“Oi. Budge over.” John nudged Sherlock’s foot, and Sherlock drew his legs up and tucked them against his chest, keeping his eyes firmly shut. John sighed and sat down on the end of the sofa.

“Gracie wore you out, didn’t she?”

“No,” Sherlock said. 

“You’re asleep on the sofa at half eight.”

“Nothing to do with her. I haven’t slept since Tuesday,” Sherlock said. It was a lie. John snorted. 

“Well, she’s asleep now.”

“Thank god,” Sherlock said. “I adore her, truly, but - she is exhausting.”

“You’re well matched,” John said, a smile in his voice. “Well, I’ve probably got a few hours left in me. Do you want a cuppa?”

Sherlock pushed himself up until he was slumped against the arm of John’s sofa. “No. I want a cigarette.” John rolled his eyes and padded into the kitchen. That was a non-starter: smoking had been firmly banned by Mary as soon as Gracie had arrived, and the ban had not been lifted after Mary left.

It was, as far as divorces went, all rather quiet. Well, of course: John was not prone to outbursts, to great shows of emotion; he had no interest in causing a scene. And Mary knew better; Mary knew what John (what Sherlock) could do if she made a fuss. She went quietly when John finally decided it was time, packed up her boxes and her secrets and moved into a flat near King’s Cross, picked up Gracie up every other Friday night and dropped her off again on Sunday evening, visited the former marital home on Wednesdays for dinner. Amicable, their friends called it - surprising, and amicable. 

“Turn on the telly, yeah? News might have something good.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “There hasn’t been anything good in weeks. Do you know we haven’t had a serial killing in London in four months?”

“Pity, that,” John said. 

“There’s that one in Bristol, though. I mentioned earlier - “

“Ah, yes, the decapitations you mentioned in front of my one year old daughter.”

“Exactly. Three so far, all left in public parks overnight with their heads next to them on the bench. Grotesque, isn’t it? The reports aren’t very detailed, but I’m fairly certain it’s a dentist. Could you get away for the weekend, you think?” 

Sherlock had asked, only once, if John wouldn’t just move back into 221b, squeeze Gracie’s crib in upstairs, flood Sherlock’s sitting room with her toys and her blankets and her bottles and that cheeky, drooly smile that Sherlock pretended hadn’t melted his heart from the very first time he’d seen it. He wouldn’t mind, he’d said. An understatement.

John had laughed in his face. “A baby at Baker Street? You’d go insane within the week, you would. What happened to _the work comes first_? With a baby in the house, the baby comes first, make no mistake. And Gracie needs her own room, you know, she’ll not be in a crib much longer.”

“Of course,” Sherlock had said, like it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. 

“As soon as Gracie gets a better grasp of English, you know, you’ll have to stop using words like ‘decapitate’ in front of her,” John said, pulling bags of tea from the cupboard. “And we’ll see about the weekend.”

“We could come up with some sort of code,” Sherlock mused. Of course, if he had his way, Gracie would learn about decapitation the same way she was learning her colors and shapes. Sherlock had learned all about the various ways murders were committed before he was four years old, and he’d turned out just - well. Perhaps not.

“Or we could just avoid talking about the different ways people are killed in front of her at all?” John suggested.

“Impossible.” 

“You’re right, that’s far too much to ask,” John said, returning to the sitting room with two mugs of tea. Sherlock took his and set it down on the coffee table. “What home is complete without murder?”

“Certainly not this one,” Sherlock muttered, and snapped his mouth shut. A sore spot: assassin mother, soldier father. Not to mention Sherlock himself, a murderer (pardoned, but still). Gracie certainly hadn’t sprung from innocence.

John snorted. “True enough.” He sipped his tea. “Can’t protect her forever, I suppose. We can keep the blood and gore to a minimum, though, yeah?”

“I’ll leave the photos at home,” Sherlock promised, and John laughed and leaned back, his shoulder pressing into Sherlock’s. 

“Quarter til nine. God, it feels like the middle of the night,” John said through a yawn. “Didn’t we used to go on all night stakeouts? When did I become an old man?”

“When you had a baby,” Sherlock said.

“I’m afraid I must be a terribly boring mate at this point, aren’t I,” John said, a bit apologetically. “You’ve got better things to do than play with the baby all night and watch me nod off on the couch, haven’t you?”

“No,” Sherlock said, with utter honesty.

“Right,” John said, and set his tea down. “Telly, then?” He leaned forward and picked up the remote control with one hand, and reached the other over and put his hand directly on top of Sherlock’s where it rested on the sofa.

Sherlock froze. The hand: clammy, cool but warmer than Sherlock’s (former smoker, his circulation would never recover), steady. John stared straight ahead, his face smoothed out, unconcerned. Was it an accident? Surely not; he would have resolved it by now, murmured an apology, cleared his throat politely and edged away. But no. Sherlock looked down at their hands. 

“Well,” John said, and Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. “I think I saw they’re showing the Godfather. Might be the Godfather II by now. Have you seen it? God, you’ll hate it. Messiest crime scenes you’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He continued to stare down at John’s hand, clasped sweatily over his own. John carefully set down his tea on the end table and picked up the remote control. 

“Ah, yeah, it’s half over. Well, that’s all right. Do you mind? I love this movie. It’s a classic. You’ve heard of it, I know you have. Probably deleted it, though.”

Sherlock raised his head slowly and looked at John. Was he hallucinating? Had John lost control of his limbs? Sherlock felt his eyes widen comically. John put the remote down and glanced at Sherlock. 

“What? Oh - right. Not a hand holder, then? Okay. I can work with that.” John pulled his hand away, but Sherlock, instinctively, grabbed it and pinned it to his knee. Reflexes: frequently useful. “Or - yes? All right.” John looked down at their hands, unconcerned. Sherlock, apparently, had lost all power of speech. He had missed some signal, some message, somewhere. It happened frequently enough, though rarely to such an extent. Social cues: the last great mystery.

“What are you doing?” he said, a bit more aggressively than he’d intended.

“Well, I was just trying it out,” John said, and his cheeks turned pink. “If you - well. Christ.” He sighed, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, so chastely and quickly that Sherlock nearly missed it. He blinked.

“Oh,” he said, and felt rather stupid. _Oh_.

“Have I - er - misjudged?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock said. “I - no. Not at all.”

“Right. Thought not. So, do you want to talk about it?” John said.

“No,” Sherlock said. 

John raised his eyebrows. 

“Maybe,” Sherlock said. “At… some point. I will need - assistance, you realize. This is not my… area.”

“Seemed to figure it out well enough with _Janine_ ,” John said, pursing his lips in distaste. Retroactive jealousy; he’d been _married_ at the time. Fascinating. A warm feeling Sherlock’s stomach; the world narrowing down to just this moment.

“Acting,” Sherlock said. “Watch enough romantic comedies and anyone can learn. Different than… well.” He looked, helplessly, down at his hand, still clutching John’s.

“You’ll figure it out,” John said, and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. 

“Only if you’re sure,” Sherlock said. “ _Really_ sure. I - you know me.” 

“I do, yeah,” John said simply.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He would drive John Watson away; he would take too much and give too little; he was not suited for strong emotions, not suited for relationships that required closeness, not suited for selflessness. And yet: John. The exception, always the exception. _John Watson, you keep me right._ He had killed for John. John had killed for him. At it’s heart, at it’s heart, it could not be simpler. “Still. It will not be easy.”

John laughed. “Is it ever?”

“I haven’t the slightest,” Sherlock said, because he didn’t. “One question, though, before we return to not talking about it. Was there a reason for - tonight? Now?”

John shrugged and turned back to the telly. “Better late than never, I thought,” he said. “Oh, god, this part is the worst. His own brother, Sherlock, can you believe it?”

“Nearly a third of murder victims are killed by family members,” Sherlock said.

“Of course they are,” John said. "Well, that's an auspicious start, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," John said, and squeezed his hand. 

Sherlock squeezed back.


End file.
